


nothing more dangerous

by lattely



Series: snippets from a lover's calendar [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Bucky Barnes, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Domestic Avengers, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, now with an ending that doesn’t give me whiplash when i think about it, shield was never hydra in this universe so rest easy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-04-12 05:37:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19125676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lattely/pseuds/lattely
Summary: When Bucky said he wanted to meet Steve’s family, this wasn’t exactly what he had in mind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Technically speaking, I shouldn't have had time to write this. I did anyway.
> 
> Title comes from Christina Aguilera's _Candyman_. The full verse is, 'There's nothing more dangerous than a boy with charm', and that certainly fits Buckaroo like a glove. As usual, thank you to [River](https://lesbuchanan.tumblr.com) for looking over this!

The New York winter is yielding to spring when Tony starts laying it on thick.

“Come on, Elsa, let it go,” he says at breakfast, pointing at Steve with a piece of pancake speared on his fork. Maple syrup drips onto the polished mahogany of the dining table, and Pepper rolls her eyes. She gathers the syrup on her index finger and sucks it into her mouth in between sips of blackcurrant tea. “Introduce us to your fella. Is that how you say ‘boyfriend’ in old?”

Steve chuckles dryly over the brim of his coffee mug. “Keep on dreaming, pal.”

He and Bucky have been together for some four months now. In Bucky’s closet, there’s a drawer dedicated to Steve’s clothes that steadily meander over from the Tower, and though Bucky firmly denies it, despite having been seen wearing it, he’s scooped Steve’s favorite hoodie up for himself. The only reason Steve hasn’t snatched it back yet is because Bucky looks immeasurably better with _BROOKLYN BABE_ stamped over his chest.

As Clint has helpfully noticed, being with Bucky has been making Steve, quote unquote, happy as a clam. Bucky’s as flawless a boyfriend as Steve’s thought - caring, affectionate, patient, which on top of him being, well, _himself_ , makes Steve feel like he’s dating perfection in human form. So, no, he’s not keen on the idea of introducing Bucky to some inhabitants of the Tower. Namely Tony. With a gentle push in the right direction, the rest of them would do just fine, Steve’s certain, but he can’t shoo Stark out of his own house just so his boyfriend can mingle without leaving his sanity in the hallway.

Tony whines pitifully, and Steve would almost be sorry for him if the man didn’t light Steve’s pant leg on fire just yesterday.

“I used medieval language for you!” Tony laments. Pepper absently nudges his hand towards his plate before another droplet of syrup has a chance to fall on the tabletop as he waves his fork accusingly. Tony doesn’t seem to register it happening.

“Is there even proof that beau of yours exists?” he raises his eyebrows so far up his forehead crinkles like paper. Beside Steve, Bruce groans.

“Maybe it was all a ploy against the world, hm?” Tony continues in spite of Clint’s tired face displaying telltale signs of him hastily planning murder by milk jug. The cup of caffeine he’s holding onto like it’s the only thing separating him from plunging headlong into inferno must be his first. “Distract us with Captain America, all that’s good and holy, being into dick, then take down the government.”

Steve catches Sam’s eye across the table. _What the fuck_ , Sam mouths incredulously as he reaches for the orange juice to refill his empty glass. Steve shrugs. Stark tends to ramble like mad when he’s sleep-deprived, which is fucking unfortunate, since he dozes an hour a night if they’re all lucky. Sam happened to come by for breakfast when Tony is caught in a four-day streak of pulling all-nighters.

“Is there evidence?” Stark inquires. There’s a piece of apple on his fork now. “How can you back up your claims, Cap’n Crunch? You have any pics of that Prince Charming of yours?”

Before Steve can reach for his phone to show Tony the photo of Bucky cooing over a cocker spaniel they’ve met in Prospect Park that he’s set as his lockscreen, just so Stark will piss off, Pepper chips in.

“I’ve met him,” she says, setting her teacup down on its saucer with a melodic chink. Tony’s head immediately whips around towards her. “He’s very nice.”

Tony mock-gasps, his hand splayed theatrically over his sternum. “Betrayed by my own betrothed! Why didn’t you tell me?” Not waiting for an answer, he leans in so close to Pepper that she must feel his breath on her cheek. “Is he hot?” he whispers loudly. “Please tell me he’s hot.”

Pepper clears her throat. With the back of her hand, she gently pushes his face back; Steve gives her props for not shoving him across the room at full force.

“He’s quite attractive, yes,” she says. There’s a blush, pale enough to miss, spreading over the bridge of her nose - a sign of mortification at praising someone else’s partner, surely, rather than acknowledging their desirable appearance in itself. She shoots Steve an apologetic look, but he only grins back. He doesn’t blame her aesthetic sense for taking a liking to his boyfriend’s looks. Bucky is a fucking stud.

“Surely not as hot as me,” Tony says. Not looking up from her Lucky Charms, Natasha replies, devoid of any and all intonation, “Everyone’s hotter than you.”

Tony goes uncannily quiet, squinting until his eyes become almost comical slits. In the silence, there’s a breathy, hitching sound that Steve quickly identifies as Clint’s muffled laughter.

“I’ll remember that when I update your lease,” Stark says at last, reaching for the platter of pancakes again, but Natasha is out for it before he can blink, hogging it close to her chest as he blinks owlishly, processing the lack of pancakes in his possession.

Stoic, Nat plucks an especially perfect pancake with her two fingers, and brings it to her lips, biting off a decent chunk that she chews while staring Tony straight in the face until he squirms and looks away.

“Sure you will,” she says once she swallows, and Stark, dodging her eye, scrapes his chair back to get up, muttering something that sounds awfully like ‘no Soviets allowed in my tower, JARVIS, jot that down’ as he trudges away.

When Tony disappears around the bend of the kitchen wall, Natasha pushes the platter away, back to the center of the table. “Pancakes, anyone?”

 

* * *

  

“My team wants to meet you,” Steve says the following day when he’s lounging on Bucky’s couch with his arm around his boyfriend. Spring has swiftly backtracked, and it’s been pouring rain since early morning; despite it not being even five pm, all the lights in Bucky’s living room are switched on, bathing the room in a warm yellow glow to battle the gloom of the offset sky outside.

“Yeah?” Bucky says from above the pile of notes he’s studying for tomorrow’s quiz in one of his classes. Steve has stopped attempting to read over his shoulder early on - he loses the plot a paragraph in. He admires Bucky all the more for effortlessly navigating topics Steve can’t begin to wrap his head around. “Why so sudden?”

“Not sudden at all, trust me,” Steve says. “They’ve been working me over for a while, it just started getting annoying.”

Bucky looks up from a cross-section of a ribcage with a crooked grin. “Stark acting up again?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

Exhaling a short laugh, Bucky leans into Steve, resting his temple on Steve’s shoulder. His new shampoo smells like aloe vera, and Steve presses a kiss to the crown of his head as Bucky tosses his handful of study material to the coffee table and tugs Steve’s arm tighter around himself. On the screen of the laptop he’s set on the table, pulling up YouTube to act as background noise, Jenna Marbles is eagerly mixing a bleach solution in a container definitely not meant for it.

They watch in silence, but when she sets to applying the paste to her eyebrows like there’s no tomorrow, Bucky hums, tangling his fingers with Steve’s in thought.

“I’d actually love to meet them,” he murmurs, nuzzling at the hinge of Steve’s jaw. Steve doesn’t turn his head, uneager to disturb Bucky’s ministrations, and he feels the shape of Bucky’s smile against his skin at the content sigh he extracts from Steve’s chest.

Bucky is keen on being openly affectionate in day-to-day life: he places kisses on Steve’s neck with no intent behind it, presses up against his flank for vertical cuddles when they’re standing in line at Starbucks, holds Steve’s hand while they’re walking. It’s a delight to Steve, the way Bucky holds him close like he’s something precious, after all those years spent with the only illusion of touch being the biting cold of the ice and the bruising punches.

“Yeah?” Steve says, matching his boyfriend’s hushed tones. On the screen, Jenna gives a triumphant shout as she wipes off the bleach to reveal nearly translucent brow hairs. Against his shoulder, Bucky nods.

“I love you, Steve,” he says. “I do want to meet the people you’ve made your family.”

Steve smiles. “I love you, too.” No matter how many times they’ve said it, the admission still turns his insides to warm goo.

“Glad we’re on the same page, sweetheart.” Bucky delivers a final teasing bite to Steve’s skin and pulls back with a heavy sigh, stretching out to grab his notes again. His thin t-shirt rides up as he moves; Steve strokes the revealed patch of tan skin with a fingertip, eliciting an indignant squeak from Bucky. It’d taken him a hot minute to discover Bucky’s one and only ticklish spot, but once he did, he’s been taking thorough advantage of it.

(Bucky loves it being bitten when they’re having sex. Steve has sucked a hickey there on at least four separate occasions.)

Fighting through a laugh, which, in turn, earns him a glare, Steve kisses the slope where Bucky’s shoulder curves into his arm. “I’ll take you to the Tower whenever you’re ready, then,” he says.

Bucky, naturally, has been to the Tower plenty of times before, but by some stroke of fate, he’s never run into any of the Avengers. Steve always takes him up via the elevator straight to his floor instead of marching through the common space, and, incidentally or no, Bucky only ever visits on days on which Steve’s teammates comprehend the concept of privacy. Secretly, Steve thinks Pepper stands behind holding them back from just barging into his living room to see who he’s sleeping with. He wouldn’t put it past her to hide some kind of witch abilities that make her sense Bucky’s presence in the building.

For a minute, they silently follow Jenna’s progress. She’s placating her boyfriend about the angry chemical burns decorating her face. When he budges, leaving her to bleach strands of her hair to match the brows, Bucky’s pen comes to a stop on the paper.

“Baby?” he says, eyes lodged on Jenna’s innovative definition of self-care.

“Hm?”

“Can I bleach your eyebrows?”

Steve hesitates. “Explain.”

“It looks dope.”

He considers all the ways he could send Stark into apoplexy if he had a blank canvas to work with. Coming in for a debrief with solid purple worms drawn above his eyes is firmly in the lead, and he only started brainstorming.

“I’ll think about it.”

Leaning in to kiss Steve’s cheek, Bucky does his best imitation of Jenna’s guttural ‘Hell yeah’ straight into his ear.

 

* * *

 

It’s kind of a shitty morning, Bucky thinks as he power-walks down the street. It’s before noon, and clearly the weather will remain as it is - bright but not sunny, the sky an off-white that may or may not spit rain any second.

Steve had slept over, and they ate breakfast together this morning, enjoying each other’s company until Steve got called away by SHIELD and ran out the door still in pyjamas, kissing Bucky quickly and wishing him good luck on the quiz in Systems Physiology. Which is where Bucky’s heading now, a backpack slung over one shoulder.

The quiz, as his professor’s threatened, will make up forty percent of his GPA, and to say he’s nervous would be an understatement. He studied until two last night, sure, to the point where Steve had to bodily hoist him up and carry him to bed (not that either of them minded), but he’s still paranoid all the material he’s copied onto neat flashcards will suddenly vanish from his head.

Rattling off the types of endocrine signaling in his head, he rounds the corner.

A bullet zings past his head, and he ducks back where he came from, plastering himself against the wall. The bullet sinks through a mailbox, contorting the metal with a crunch as it goes, and imbeds itself in the wall the box is secured to.

Bucky takes a slow breath in, then another. His heart is hammering in his ribcage all of a sudden, jump-started by the all-too-familiar sound of a gunshot. He clenches his fists to ground himself.

He hasn’t worn fatigues for years, but he’s still a sergeant.

Slowly, he moves towards the edge of the building, and, careful as can be, he sticks his head out to assess the danger.

The avenue perpendicular to his hiding place is in shambles. There’s smoke in the air, coating everything in a white film that Bucky automatically tries to blink away. Streetlights are lying across the rubble-and-glass-littered road, many cars have been smashed as if they were thin aluminum. Silhouettes of people are looming like ghosts, most sheltering in shattered storefronts, but there are daredevils who are trying to make a break for it - an Indian woman with a gash on her forehead, a crying toddler held tight in her arms. Two men, one supporting the other with an arm around his waist to relieve his friend’s bleeding leg of pressure.

A cacophony of screams is accompanying the usual distant sound of city traffic; the bitter stench of gunpowder is floating into Bucky’s nostrils.

He glances at his watch. Twenty minutes to the quiz, and he’s fucking stuck in the middle of a riot.

Breathing in a carefully calculated rhythm, he looks back to the destroyed street. He weighs his options.

No imminent threat seems to linger, and he _really goddamn needs a good GPA_ , so he grits his teeth and is off like a lightning bolt before he can change his mind, blood rushing in his ears.

This grade had better be worth it.

He doesn’t hear the beat of his sneakers against the pavement as he runs, but he does catch a moving flash of red out the corner of his eye. He jerks his head to the side, not slowing down.

His body is working on too high of a gear for him to feel any stupor at seeing Black Widow herself fighting three men clad in black as she moves backwards out of an alleyway. _She’s pulling them out into open space_ , Bucky thinks, just as three consecutive arrows slice through the air from above and anchor themselves in the attackers’ bodies. The men go down at once, and Widow sheathes her batons, starting off at a sprint in the same direction as Bucky across the street.

Seemingly burning his soles with how fast he’s hightailing it the fuck away, Bucky braces himself to turn right. He’s preparing for a sideways collision with a rapidly nearing newspaper stand - anything not to lose his acceleration - when there’s a stomach-curdling scream ahead. It’s a woman’s scream; a _girl’s_ scream, no less.

When he skids to a stop to look towards the yell’s source, a man wearing black armor similar to the guys Widow faced down is advancing on something in front of him. His prey is hidden out of Bucky’s sight by an abandoned food cart. On silent feet, Bucky crawls forward, and glues himself to the cart once he’s reached it, snaking around it to process his surroundings.

Bile climbs up Bucky’s throat. The man’s target is a group of teenage girls huddled together against a wall.

They’re fucking terrified. One of them, a Native American girl who doesn’t even look to be over sixteen, is whimpering into her stock-still friend’s shoulder. A black girl with a buzzcut is shielding the frozen blonde with her body despite visibly quivering in fright, held by the hand by a redhead who’s heaving frantic breaths in and out through her nose.

Letting his instinct take over, Bucky grabs a severed length of a light pole lying in the gutter, and, adjusting it so it sits secure in his grip, he approaches the man as quietly as he can. Putting his index finger to his lips to warn the girls to be silent, he takes a broad swing. The metal connects with the back of the thug's head with a sickening crack, and the man, caught by surprise, drops to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

However, as Bucky makes to tend to the frightened girls, thinking his task accomplished, one of the teens lets out a piercing shriek. She's pointing to something behind Bucky's back with a trembling finger. Before he can whirl around, there are thick arms wrapping tightly around his neck, crushing his windpipe. The rough sleeves of the person's jacket smell bitter, like sulphur and engine oil. Gasping for breath, Bucky mashes the pole still clutched in his hand into the assailant's crotch on instinct, a desperate hope for it to be a man zipping through his head.

With a howl, the goon recoils. Bucky thanks the heavens for his accurate guess as he whips around and drives his fist up into the man's contorted face in a forceful uppercut. It isn't a second until the man regains his footing, though. Before Bucky knows it, they're grappling for the upper hand, sending punches and kicks flying. Though it’s been a good five years since he wrapped up his last tour, Bucky is proud to say his body is still well-versed in the motions of a brawl.

He winces when the sour tang of blood spreads in his mouth as a result of a well-placed jab. He manages to sweep the man off his feet with a push to the shoulders and a calf hooked behind his ankle. As the man sails backwards, a yelp escaping his throat, Bucky yanks a pistol out of the guy's belt holster. Once the man hits the pavement, Bucky doesn't hesitate to shoot out both of his kneecaps, undeterred by the thug's shrill scream as crimson seeps through the black canvas of his tac pants.

The man he took out first begins to stir back to life, but, knocked out of stupor, the Native American girl rams her boot's chunky heel into the crown of his head, and he collapses again.

When Bucky smiles at her, clicking the gun's safety back on, her dark eyes are wide like saucers.

"Nice," he says. She mechanically quirks a strained corner of her mouth, still disarmed by terror. "You girls okay?"

They all nod at him distractedly. Only the blonde finds it in her to look up into his face. Her fingers are tangled in front of her, starkly pale against the navy corduroy of her pants.

"Thanks," she says in only a slightly wavering voice. There's a smudge of dirt on her chin. "For, you know. Saving our lives."

Bucky breathes a short laugh. "You got it."

Slowly, he becomes aware of the painful throbbing spread over the left half of his face. He weakly prays for it not to bruise, though he knows it will; if he needs to go to a lecture with a plum-sized shiner under his eye tomorrow, he just might eat his shoe to make himself sick enough to justify staying home. Anything better than Julie, the insufferable medicine major, offering to 'take care of him' as she curls a lock of her dyed hair around her finger. He's starting to think she requires a written request to finally piss off. Does she not notice the rainbow pin on his backpack on purpose?

Out of the blue, the small blonde girl lets out a squeak, and Bucky glances behind himself, alarmed.

Only to catch Steve Rogers, alias Captain America, alias Bucky's boyfriend who spilled orange juice down his front this very morning, standing just behind him.

Bucky’s lungs skip an inhalation. So that’s what Steve’s been up to.

He’s dirty and bloodied, his uniform blackened in places by something that looks suspiciously like scorch marks. There's a long cut along the kevlar on his bicep, however that happened, and his grated knuckles are already scabbing over. He looks like the leader of a demonic revolution downstairs in Hell.

Bucky wants to kiss him silly.

"Are all of you o-" Steve starts, eyes sweeping over the lot of them, and promptly cuts himself off when his gaze comes to rest on Bucky. Bucky smiles sweetly at him, half because he's a little shit, half because if he didn’t grin, he’d probably cry with relief at seeing the man he’s in love with still alive and well. More or less. "Bucky?"

"Hi," Bucky says, lifting the stolen gun in a wave. Which, in retrospect, isn't the best way to say hello, but who's to judge him. Certainly not the guy who runs around with an oversized frisbee.

"You're bleeding," Steve blurts out instead of the ‘What in the fuck are you doing here?’ Bucky was expecting.

The girls are watching their exchange like a tennis match, eyes flitting from one of them to the other. They must make a fine spectacle indeed - a battle-weary Captain America conversing with a random guy in a denim jacket and a Sig Sauer in hand.

Bucky frowns. "Am I?" He touches his fingertips to his cheek, mindful of the swelling. They come away red. "Well, what do you know."

Steve’s mouth twists into a grim line. Without another word to Bucky - which unnerves him more than a little, because Steve never misses out on an occasion to argue about whatever petty thing, he’s an ass like that - Steve presses two fingers to his ear, where his comm must be.

“This is Rogers,” he says, adapting the cold drawl of a voice he uses whenever he’s in a position of authority. It sends a tingle up Bucky’s spine every time. “Clean-up, I got two incapacitated. Get them off my hands.”

In the span of less than a minute, a woman with close-cropped dark hair appears by Steve’s side as if out of nowhere. The sleeve of her jacket is emblazoned with SHIELD’s eagle, and Bucky, dazed as to where the hell she came from, glances over his shoulder to inspect the state of the street.

In the meantime, SHIELD must have sent an assist crew, because the avenue is now crawling with agents - they’re forcing packs of cuffed goons in black into a waiting quinjet, or relaying orders to what disoriented policemen have arrived at the scene. A few kindred spirits are helping civilians out of their hiding places.

Not bothering to speak, the agent Steve’s summoned bends down to click the unconscious soldiers’ wrists into heavy handcuffs. She mutters something into her headpiece; she’s shortly joined by an enormous bald guy in a uniform matching hers. His thick arms bulge as he unceremoniously heaves the men off the ground by the elbows and lugs them away, red in the face from the dead weight he’s dragging.

As the woman moves to leave, too, sending a crisp salute Steve’s way, Bucky’s brain comes back on air.

“Oh,” he utters to grab her attention, the first sound that escapes his chest. It’s like the Skype startup noise, when the app is ostensibly on but not working in earnest quite yet.

Luckily, the agent stands in place, expectantly sizing Bucky up. One of her eyebrows is drawing an impressive raised arch of annoyance. She’s not a patient person, it appears, and Bucky swiftly holds the stolen gun out to her by its barrel. She frowns, levelling him with a wary once-over. He must not make a trustworthy sight, but what New Yorker does.

“SHIELD has Forensics, right?” Bucky prompts. The woman glances to Steve, unsure of how to proceed; only when he jerks out a nod does she take the pistol out of Bucky’s grasp, and hurries away.

From behind Bucky, someone uncertainly inquires, “Are we, like, allowed to go?”

It’s one of the girls, the redhead, he discovers when he turns to find the source of the question. He didn’t expect them to still be here, wringing their hands in anxious confusion, and he’s ashamed to say he gapes a little.

“Of course,” Steve affirms quickly, fast to give the girls a green light. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

The black girl smiles a broad grin, like no one tried to kill her minutes ago. “We’re sure,” she says. “Thanks again, sir,” he adds to Bucky. He waves the gratitude away with a hand. He’s a decent citizen and he’s got a working moral compass, he won’t take praise for saving the lives of a group of teens.

“It’s nothing.”

The girl hums. “Well. Thanks anyway,” she says. Sloppily mimicking the salute the agent tossed Steve before, she tangles her fingers with the redhead’s, and all four of them are off.

To put the scrap of time in only each other’s presence to good use, Bucky opens his mouth with all the intention of asking Steve what’s got him so wound up. He’s still tense; beautiful face crumpled by stormy displeasure, the lines and curves of his uniform-encased body stiff. Bucky hates seeing his boyfriend like this, muscles taut and crawling with exhaustion, so different to the golden-hearted jerk he fell head over heels for. The two sides are a package deal, Bucky knew that going in, but it doesn’t make it any easier to witness Steve suffering.

Before any words roll down Bucky’s tongue, though, there’s a voice he’s heard countless times on TV when he was speed-reading through his lecture notes.

“Who’s the fox, Mister United States?” Tony Stark says, eyeing Bucky with avid interest. He’s sporting the dirt-splattered Iron Man suit, sans the retracted faceplate, and somehow manages to make his shattered brow bone look like a fashion statement.

On either side, he’s flanked by the Avengers: Hawkeye gripping his sleek bow, Black Widow carrying half a dozen guns in tasteful thigh and hip holsters, Falcon with his wings folded into their jetpack. The only ones missing are Thor and the Hulk.

When Bucky said he wanted to meet Steve’s family, this wasn’t exactly what he had in mind.

Next to him, Steve pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and exhales a deep, drawn-out sigh. Then he straightens, squaring his shoulders as if preparing for combat, and motions to Bucky with a gloved hand.

“Guys, this is Bucky, my boyfriend,” he says. He waves the extended arm towards the Avengers as they explode into various states of delight. “Buck, my team.”

Grinning, Bucky dives to shake the offered hands, because despite Steve’s compromised state setting off deafening alarm bells in his bloodstream, Bucky’s ma still raised him well.

Instead of being a regular person, Stark dips into an exaggerated bow before Bucky.

“An honor to meet you, Lady Rogers,” he says. Bucky sees what Steve meant about Stark being a walking exclamation point. It’s hilarious. The initial amusement supposedly wears off in record time, but for now Bucky enjoys being entertained.

Pursing his mouth to contain his smile, he bows in return. “Likewise, Lady Potts,” he deadpans. Stark mouth quirks in appreciation, lower lip jutting out, and he nods, dark eyes solemnly wide.

“Cap picks them well,” he concludes, which is all Bucky gets before Tony clears the floor for others.

“Damn, man, you really are hot,” Hawkeye ( _Clint_ , his name is _Clint_ , he’s the guy whose dog leaves fur all over everyone’s clothing in Steve’s stories, and who stubs his toe on a pillow) says, pumping Bucky’s hand for a beat longer than necessary.

Bucky laughs. He already loves this dude. “Wow, thanks.”

By Clint’s side, Romanoff snorts - with her, even a sound meant to be careless is carefully calculated, studied. Steve’s mentioned her distrust in people, how long it took her to warm up to him before she as much as wore sweatpants in front of him. “I can’t believe my own boyfriend is about to cheat on me,” she says, dry. Instantly, Clint’s arm comes to wrap around her slender waist.

“Aw, Tasha,” he croons. Romanoff disguises her fond half-smile with an eye roll.

Bucky might be forced to reevaluate his opinion on superheroes in the near future, he thinks as Sam Wilson compliments his jacket, when abruptly the festivities are interrupted by Steve of all people.

“Let’s go,” he grinds out, stalking towards a jet waiting close by. The bigger SHIELD aircraft has already soared away, its passengers having collected their captives, so that must be the Avengers’ personal transport.

Bucky frowns; based on the similar reactions Steve’s tone garners amongst his teammates, he’s not the only one weirded out by the unforgiving coarseness that’s slipped into Steve’s command. It’s not like Steve to be severe, leadership or no, and it’s definitely not in his nature to seep aggression.

Not thrown off-track enough not to obey a direct order from who’s technically their commanding officer, the Avengers follow Steve. Bucky, however, stays rooted in his spot. He’s confused and, frankly, a bit hurt - Steve’s behaving like he never has before, not even after the toughest of assignments. _Maybe one of the thugs injected him with something._

Bucky hastily shakes the thought off.

As he sets off in the direction he came from - the quiz has already started, he might as well go home and draft an e-mail to his professor, explaining his absence, and hope for the best - Steve calls out to him from the ramp of the quinjet. The street is still mostly deserted, only a couple of people milling about, so Steve’s baritone carries across the thirty or so feet with no disturbance.

“I meant you, too,” Steve shouts. He’s leaning out of the mouth of the jet, his legs inside so only his torso is within Bucky’s view.

He’s shucked his cowl. His hair is a sweaty mess of gold.

“Why?” Bucky calls back. Steve has said he’d take him to the Tower to hang out with the Avengers, but surely not _right now._

“You’re hurt.” The curt way the words are said bears no objection.

Bucky sighs. “Steve, I can hold my own. It’s only a cut.”

It’s not only a cut. He’s still tasting blood in his mouth, and half of his face is throbbing like a fucking beacon, along with his stomach pulsing waves of prickling pain. But he’s had layers upon layers of worse, for heaven’s sake. He’ll down some Tylenol, take a nap, and if the aching discomfort doesn’t give in by the time he wakes up, he’ll go to the hospital. He’s got good insurance.

“Buck,” Steve practically growls. Bucky’s hair stands on end. “ _Please_.”

The suppressed desperation in Steve’s plea strikes a chord in Bucky - it’s a shy ghost of the fear Steve muffles into Bucky’s chest in the dark when Bucky pulls him, gasping and thrashing, from a nightmare.

Dread washes over him in a cold trickle.

“Fine,” he relents, driven by the urge to soothe whatever pain Steve is in, and he catches up to the quinjet at a jog.

The moment the hatch slides closed after Bucky, Steve whirls on him. Startled, Bucky takes an involuntary step back; Steve’s eyes are dark, tightened with anger at the usually crinkling corners.

“What were you thinking?” Steve hisses. He’s practically _seething_ , white-knuckled fists palpitating at his sides.

Immediately defensive, Bucky crosses his arms over his chest, widening his stance, not only to steady himself against the sway of the taking-off jet. He knows a dispute approaching when he sees one. “Excuse me?” He frowns, keeping his voice level despite the vexation flaring up in his chest.

They’ve never fought before, not about things that mattered. In the grand scheme of things, Bucky should’ve predicted their first real argument would go down in the company of the Avengers, who are all twisting to stare at them now, sniffing out hostility the way sharks sense blood. Because why not - Bucky’s life is enough of a shitshow as is, might as well throw a falling-out with the only bright point of his existence in the mix.

“Bucky, you willingly went out of your way to fight two of the guys the Avengers were sent to contain,” Steve says.

Bucky’s mouth parts in incredulity. Is that what this is about?

He’d be upset, too, if he caught someone he loves in a situation they shouldn’t have gotten themselves involved in, but he would never chew them out in front of an audience.

“Oh my God,” he says, disbelief charging his voice with a breathy quality that makes it sound like a laugh. Steve bristles, narrowing his eyes. “Do you honestly think I did it for fun?” He throws his arms up. This just in: his boyfriend thinks he’s an idiot. “I don’t know if you fucking noticed, but a couple’a kids were about to be goddamn offed!”

A muscle in Steve’s jaw jumps as he looks off to the side, then back to Bucky, expression positively murderous. “You could’ve called for help!”

They must have gotten louder without noticing, because the Avengers are watching them at rapt attention. Next to Stark, a familiar guy is perched in one of the padded seats, dressed in ratty jeans and a wrinkled lavender button-down. Bucky recognizes him as Dr Banner - Steve has mentioned once or twice that when the mission doesn’t mandate the Hulk’s involvement, Bruce stays behind in the quinjet to oversee the technicalities.

Bucky’s making a great first impression, that’s for sure.

He drags in a deep inhale to calm his nerves. Steve thinking he’s not strong enough to protect himself is like a punch to the gut. They’ve been together four fucking months, when was that issue meant to come out?

“Am I just your damsel in distress?” he growls. He’s proud to say he handles arguments with skill - that is, at least, until his insecurities come into play. In that case, he’s done for. Someone prodding at his self-perceived faults disarms him better than anything, all the more so if the person who happens to hot-wire his defences is quite possibly the love of his life.

To his credit, Steve appears to be genuinely taken aback by the insinuation, but before he can splutter out a response, Bucky continues.

“You know how much I hate to admit to this, but I was in the fucking army, Steve,” he says. He’s not proud of his time in the troops, not now that he understands the macabre of what he was essentially serving for, but the past cannot be changed, and he takes it in stride. “If you think I’m too weak to make myself useful when it’s called for, well, do I got some news for you, pal.”

With that, he spins on his heel, and goes to make a new acquaintance.

 

* * *

 

The Stark Tower’s med bay is possibly the most sterile place Bucky has ever been in, excluding his teenage sister Grace’s immaculate bedroom (he can’t understand how she can afford to maintain it so impossibly spotless, but it’s not like his cognizance of it will influence her).

Like the rest of the building, the bay is comprised largely of chrome and glass that serves as a pristinely white scene for all kinds of ultra-modern equipment. The severe glow the fluorescent lights shine over the room gives it an aura of coldness, even though it’s perfectly warm - an exact seventy one degrees, Stark has said, ‘a temperature scientifically proven to make you the least pissed’.

Bucky’s been sat down on one of the cots and checked over in tandem with the Avengers. Except for Steve, who has miraculously fucked off to somewhere when only the quinjet touched down on the landing pad. All the better for everyone, if he was intending on glowering like he had in the jet after Bucky walked away from him.

After cleaning the blood dried on his face and disinfecting the cuts, the nurse Bucky had been assigned scanned him from head to toe with a sort of lightsaber if it were the length of a compact dagger. It made him nervous, and the nurse must have noticed, because she cracked a smile and told him the contraption emitted no radiation whatsoever. Which is not what he was scared of - his worries lay in being accidentally stabbed - but good to know. Within seconds, a floating hologram pinged to existence out of the device’s blade. It must have been some kind of report, because the nurse scrolled through it mid-air as if it were a laptop, and relayed post-haste the nature of Bucky’s injuries to him. It turned out to be nothing serious - just some bruised ribs and a hairline fracture of the left cheekbone. Nothing he couldn’t walk off.

But as he remains seated on the cot, watching the bustle of attendants around the Avengers, Bucky can’t help but wonder where Steve is. The post-fight energy he was high on has long dissipated, leaving confusion and anguish in its wake.

He isn’t going to deny that Steve hurt him by implying he wasn’t man enough to watch his own six. Bucky understands that Steve was worried, he truly does - he did fight possibly-enhanced beings, after all - but some faith in his abilities would be nice. Then comes the issue of the way Steve resolved the situation: by going off on Bucky with his friends practically in the first row. Bucky would’ve come to terms with an argument in the privacy of an empty room, but being chided like a kid in front of people, and ones he just met? Not an optimal clashing ground, he dares to say. He supposes the quarrell will be followed by a second act.

Bucky’s broken out of his musings by the gentle whir of the sliding glass doors opening and a heavy set of footsteps entering the room. He raises his head.

Steve has walked into the med bay.

He’s shed the jacket of his uniform, and the black compression t-shirt he wears underneath is clinging to the chiseled triangle of his torso like a second skin, plus someone’s cleaned the mess of soot and blood off his face, revealing the already-yellowing bruises. In short, he’s back to being his usual jaw-dropping self, and Bucky reserves the right to resent the universe, because how is he supposed to be mad when his boyfriend looks like this?

To Bucky’s astonishment, Steve struts straight towards him, not sparing the others even a single glance. What is to be expected, a hush falls over the space at the drop of a hat. In the silence, Stark whispers theatrically, “Anyone got popcorn?”

Steve ignores it, kneeling on the gleaming tiled floor at Bucky’s feet. The hostility from the quinjet is all but gone, replaced by an apologetic acceptance.

Bucky is too stunned to speak. Is Steve going to beg for forgiveness?

“Can I?” Steve says instead of whatever tearful skit Bucky’s subconscious was half-expecting him to perform.

He’s holding up a cloth-wrapped ice pack, and Bucky nods, understanding what Steve’s asking for. Upon his permission, Steve lets out what Bucky thinks is a minute breath of relief, gently pressing the pack to the left side of Bucky’s face, and when his thumb strokes the skin under Bucky’s eye, the only space the pack has left uncovered, Bucky positively _melts._

“I’m sorry,” Steve says softly. “For treating you like you couldn’t handle yourself. And for giving you a slanting in front of my team.”

Moved, Bucky cups Steve’s hand with his. In Steve’s eyes, something like bashful hope glimmers - a sparkle of joy that makes Bucky want to kiss his nose for no reason other than he can. He’s so fucking in love, it shouldn’t be legal.

“I forgive you,” he replies. “Don’t do it again, though.”

Steve shakes his head. “Never.”

When he leans in for a gentle kiss, mindful of the ice pack, Stark gives an obnoxious holler that earns him a smack on the arm from Sam.

Bucky feels like he’s going to both adore and hate the shit out of these people in no time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Please do yourself the liberty of subscribing to [Jenna Marbles](https://www.youtube.com/user/JennaMarbles) if you haven't yet.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic's OG ending has been bugging me since I posted it, and today the brilliant [River](https://lesbuchanan.tumblr.com) pitched me the idea of simply writing a second chapter to fix what's been eating away at me (and some of you). I hope you enjoy the developments!

When they get the green light to leave the medbay, it’s fast approaching one in the afternoon and Bucky is wrangling an intense craving for pad thai and some inner peace, which, in most cases, go hand in hand. When relaid to Steve - who’s changed into street clothes in the meantime, because his mandatory mission debrief is first thing tomorrow morning and he doesn’t have to look intimidating until then - the distant daydream of spicy noodles morphs into a plan. Steve’s eyes set alight at the mention of food, and within minutes, they’re buckled up in a sleek SHIELD Audi masquerading as a town car that’s taking them to Bucky’s apartment.

There’s even a partition separating them from the driver, and if it weren’t for the fatigue catching up to him like a freight train, Bucky would surely take advantage of the occasion to get into Steve’s pants in an unusual setting. As is, he settles for holding his hand and fantasising about the takeout he speedily ordered in the elevator.

“You feeling okay?” Steve says suddenly, catching him off guard. Since he apologised, he’s been hamming it up, not leaving Bucky’s side for more than the minutes it took him to change. Bucky appreciates it as much as it flusters him in the best way possible - Steve is a warm, comforting presence, and he must indeed have been worried out of his mind to not be willing to unglue himself from Bucky.

Knowing he means this much to Steve makes Bucky want to fucking sing his joy from rooftops.

“Yeah, Steve, I’m fine,” he settles for saying, tracing his thumb over the new, shiny skin on Steve’s knuckles. “You don’t need to worry.”

“Buck, I am gonna worry,” Steve says, and the sudden gravity of his tone drives Bucky to look up into his face.

His mouth is drawn tight, pulling down at the corners, and the distressed weight of his eyes drops an anvil in Bucky’s gut. He immediately feels like the king of asshats for dismissing Steve’s concern, and an even worse airhead for not acknowledging it like it deserved to be. Bucky got his apology, where did Steve’s go?

_ You done fucked up, Barnes, _ Bucky’s head supplies, not unkindly.

“Put yourself in my place here,” Steve continues. He tugs Bucky’s hand into his lap, encases it in both of his strong palms, stroking the thin scar on Bucky’s index finger where he burned it with the edge of a hot pan three years ago. “There’s wreckage, an entire street demolished, there’s civilians on gurneys, you’re exhausted and half out of it, and suddenly you see the guy you love the most in the world just standing in the middle of it all with blood down his face, fresh outta fighting two bastards who could’ve easily killed him.” Steve’s voice cracks on the last words, and with his free hand, Bucky pulls him in by the back of his neck so their foreheads are resting together. He swallows the ball in his own throat, working his fingers through the short hairs at Steve’s nape. It always oddly calms him, even know, in the face of breaking down in a million-dollar car that still smells of synthetic vanilla. “Just taken him away from you forever like it doesn’t matter. Understand me here.”

“Stevie…” Bucky rasps, cleaning his throat when he hears how broken-up he sounds. They’re not getting out of this unscathed, he thinks as he blinks back the moisture in his eyes that’s gathered there at Steve’s words as if it was fucking invited. “You know perfectly well I understand. How many times do you think I’ve seen you on TV taking a beating, worrying myself sick that maybe this time, you won’t come home?” He recalls watching Steve’s blood trickle down his face through the scope of a news camera, remembers calling which of his sisters would pick up to wail like a man possessed into the speaker. “Fucking dozens.”

He’s distracted from the flowing stream of speech that surprises his own person by Steve’s mouth on his wrist. Steve’s lips are warm and damp on his pulse point, and Bucky bites on his tongue not to let out the sob that so desperately wants to crawl its way up.

“I trust you, I know you can manage, but fuck, sweetheart, do you think my mind understands that?” Bucky plows on. Steve is silent, not letting out a single peep; Bucky doesn’t know whether it’s driving him crazy or if it’s grateful for it. “All it takes is a news close-up of you fighting for breath while you’re dodging death by a hair to get me throwing up into the fucking sink.” At that, Steve’s breath hitches, and he presses a kiss to Bucky’s palm, not retracting his mouth again. His stubbly chin is trembling against the pads of Bucky’s fingers.

Bucky moves his other hand from Steve’s neck to his face, cupping his strong jaw in his palm. He fucking loves this man so much: would easily give his life for him, would rip his heart out and hand it over to him for safekeeping with not a single protest, and they’ve only been together four goddamn months.

Steve closes his eyes, leaning into Bucky’s touch, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows heavily, and shit, this time Bucky can’t help the single tear that slides treacherously down his cheek.

“You’re Captain America, sure, but you’re also the idiot who kisses me goodnight, and who tries to make dinner though he knows he’ll burn the damn water, just so I can take a nap.” Steve gives a watery chuckle; they both remember his attempt at cooking up an ossobuco like it was yesterday. “I know what I signed up for when I fell for you, but it doesn’t stop me from racking my brains about what might happen the next time you leave on a mission.”

Steve releases a miserable sniff. Bucky kisses him on the tip of his nose, like he’s wanted to for hours.

“I’m sorry, Buck, I just-” Steve starts, but Bucky cuts him off immediately.

“Hey, none of that,” he says. “You had your turn, now it’s mine.” He kisses the corner of Steve’s mouth, small and chaste, and when Steve moves closer to chase his lips, Bucky immobilises him by pecking his nose again. “I’m sorry for making you upset, okay? I’m not sorry for saving those girls, and you know that, but I am sorry for worrying you.”

Steve nods. “You’re forgiven,” he says, and when he leans in for a kiss this time, Bucky obliges, sliding his hand down to grip Steve close by the loose red t-shirt Bucky’s going to steal later.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://lattelyy.tumblr.com)!


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